


Heat Transfer

by Moontyger



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-29
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anakin never touched her with his artificial hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Transfer

Anakin never touched her with his artificial hand. After the first few days, Padme never even saw it. He kept it covered, gloved even in the humidity of Naboo, even in the privacy of their shared bed. If it weren't for the glove, stark black on the end of his tanned arm, the glove and the awkwardness of one-handed lovemaking, she might have been able to forget it existed.

But she didn't want to forget. It was a terrible wound, the sort of thing she'd never seen before on peaceful Naboo. The mere fact of its existence was an outrage against her pacifism, a sign of the war that could no longer be avoided, but she didn't blame Anakin for that. No, she respected him. He'd done his duty and paid the price. It would be wrong to try to forget that.

So tonight she smiles at him, relaxed naked against the silk sheets of her bed, and reaches for it, grasping it firmly in both her hands before he can pull it away. Slowly, she peels the glove back, baring golden metal with the same nervous anticipation as she'd bared skin on their wedding night. Padme stares at it; they both do, watching it gleam like some secret treasure in the dimness of her bedroom as he flexes the fingers a little in her grip. Anakin probably wishes she'd let go, but he doesn't ask, and instead she raises his hand (she refuses to think of it as anything else) to her lips.

She kisses it gently, shivering a little at a touch that somehow remains cold despite the weather. Padme holds it there, watching her breath cloud the shine, feeling it slowly warm to the temperature of her body. She looks up to meet Anakin's eyes, stares at him over this piece of machinery that for the moment forms the only bridge between their bodies. “Touch me. I want to feel it.”

“I could hurt you,” Anakin protests. He could; she's seen him make mistakes with the greater strength of that hand, crushing delicate goblets because he lacks the sensation that would tell him that he was squeezing too tightly. She can feel the weight of it as she holds it, remembers the metallic clunk it made when he forgot and hit it on the furniture, and Padme wonders for a moment if it hurts to wear, a burden that he can't choose to put down.

All the more reason not to back down. “I trust you. You'd never hurt me.”

It's not entirely a matter of trust and they both know it, but Anakin doesn't argue. He slides it easily from her grip, the metal slippery with the sweat of her palms, and traces a line down the center of her chest, between her breasts. His touch is light, delicate, a trail of coolness that could almost be her imagination.

Padme watches him as he does it, watches him as she so often does, arching her back as hard metal fingers stroke the spaces between her ribs, pushing the sheet down as he goes. Anakin isn't smiling, nor is his expression one of lust, not yet. He has that little line between his brows that he gets when he's concentrating and his eyes are wide, almost fearful.

A less stubborn woman might have told him to stop there, called it enough for tonight, but Padme never liked to back down. Instead she stretches, letting herself slide down the pillows to lie more flat, opening herself to his touch. His hand keeps moving, fingertips heating from the warmth of her skin as they pass over her hips, slide back upwards to trace around a nipple in slow circles, brushing over it once before continuing up, over her throat and back to her lips.

She parts them, letting Anakin slide one finger in, familiarizing herself with its smooth, inhuman texture, no pretense of skin and nothing hiding the way the joints fit together. It feels strange, not at all like when she's done this with his other hand, but she doesn't mind it.

Wet now, his finger circles the other nipple, leaving a shining trail across her pale skin as it dries. Anakin doesn't go farther, doesn't roll her nipple between finger and thumb, not with this hand. Padme feels the loss; wishes for more, but she understands. Her lips are still parted and she's breathing harder, beginning to feel the desire that his touch always evokes. And why shouldn't she? It might feel a little different, but it's still Anakin touching her.

Heated metal tips caresses her stomach, dipping briefly into her navel, before sliding lower, toying with dark curls. Padme watches avidly as Anakin sits up, reaching over at last to tweak a nipple with his other hand, letting her feel the contrast between callused flesh and smooth metal. She parts her legs, smiling as she sees him lick his lips, his fears forgotten in the face of her desire.

With the teasing grin she thinks she first fell in love with, he circles her clitoris with one finger of his artificial hand, drawing tighter and tighter spirals but never quite touching. Padme lifts her hips, panting, tries to squirm to make him slip, but he holds her back on the bed without lifting a finger of either hand.

“That's cheating,” she protests, but she's smiling, too, a smile swallowed in a gasp as Anakin takes the opportunity to slip two fingers inside her. They're warm now, hotter than she is, and she thinks for a moment of Tatooine and the endless heat, warming everything she touched there nearly to the point of burning unprotected skin. Heat has always reminded her of Anakin and his homeworld, but never like this.

Padme had never considered what this would feel like before, never thought about mechanical fingers inside her, but she likes it, likes the hard solidity as he thrusts them inside her, likes the heat rubbing against sensitive flesh. “Anakin,” she breathes, and he smiles, an expression of such pure happiness and love that it's nearly childlike in its absolute trust. Anakin has never been good at hiding his emotions, but she's certain this smile is one that no one else will ever see.

He slides his fingers out, rolling over onto his back in almost the same motion, and Padme doesn't even consider resisting as he pulls her on top of him. She rides him willingly, eagerly, rubbing shamelessly against him. Her eyes slide shut, but Anakin keeps touching her, flesh hand and metal one alike sliding over sweat-slick skin in endless caresses. For the moment, lost in a haze of pleasure, she can no longer tell the difference between them.


End file.
